


On a Miserable Winter's Eve

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 12DaysofMoony, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Schmoop, and some more fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home to an empty flat. He falls asleep on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Miserable Winter's Eve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/gifts).



> Thanks to Otter and thisprettywren for the beta work. I hope you like it, Moons!

Sherlock is nowhere to be found when John gets home. Which is fine, really. There are no strange smells in the flat, no yelling, no gunshots. The kitchen isn’t aflame, the worktop is clean. 

It’s quiet. Calm. Peaceful.

Hateful.

John tries to enjoy it, though. He’s not sure where Sherlock is, and a quick ‘ _where are you?_ ’ text receives no reply. He tries not to worry over that; it’s not particularly hard to do so right now. There hasn’t been a case in a few days, and Sherlock had mentioned getting _something_ from Molly that morning over breakfast. It’s logical to assume he’s still at Barts.

Plus, it’s raining and cold, and John has no desire to go back out in that. 

He sets the kettle to boil, starts a fire, and changes into pyjamas, pulling his jumper back on over the thin vest he sleeps in. He has a cuppa by the fire and picks up the novel that he’s slowly working his way through. It’s not a mystery, so Sherlock hadn’t even bothered deducing the ending on him (also, he’s read it twice).

After his tea, he moves to the sofa, despite it being further from the fire. He pulls a blanket over himself and continues to read.

When he wakes up later, the first thing he’s aware of is the warm weight on his chest. He’s aware of it before he even opens his eyes, and he feels safe. Safe as he has rarely felt. John opens his eyes to the sight of curls, a riot of them right in his face.

Sherlock’s head is on his shoulder, nose tucked against his neck. The blanket is still between them. His arms have gone around Sherlock in his sleep, he can feel the silk of one of his friend’s dressing gowns beneath his fingers, and he indulges in a slow stroke up Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock raises his head to look at John.

John smiles a little. “Hello.”

Sherlock just looks at him. 

_Oh._ Time seems to stretch out between them, the tension, the potential; Sherlock’s eyes are dark in a way John hasn’t seen before, dark with intent, with possibilities. John lifts his hand, slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to protest, to move away, to avert this, and lays his fingertips against Sherlock’s pale cheek. Sherlock makes a noise much like a purr and turns into the contact, laying his face against John’s hand fully, turning so his lips brush against John’s palm and breathing out slowly.

They both shiver. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut. They stay like that, quiet, while the tension mounts, while Sherlock breathes increasingly shaky breaths and John stares at him.

“Is this you flirting with me then?” John asks, when he finds his voice, his words. He’s proud when it doesn’t shake too badly, when his voice doesn’t break.

Sherlock opens his eyes to glare at John. It eases the tension a bit. Over the sight of him pressing his face into John’s hand, the glare loses effectiveness. John smiles at him.

“I’m fairly certain, John, that this is me throwing myself at you, actually.”

“Finally figured it out, then?”

Sherlock looks affronted. “You knew?”

John nods. “For a while now. I was waiting for you to catch up.”

Sherlock makes a discontent noise. “I always miss something,” he mutters.

John thinks could stay just like this, in this moment of perfect potential, teetering on the precipice of more, savoring the sweet torture of wanting, not having. 

Sherlock, ever impatient, thumps one foot against the sofa and shifts his body against John's moving a bit closer. "John, you're supposed to kiss me now."

John chuckles. He slips his hand from Sherlock's cheek back, threading his fingers into soft hair and tugging, closing the distance slowly, until there's hardly more than a breath between them. And he smiles.

"Oh? Am I?"

He holds Sherlock there, suspended, wanting, breath mingling. He savors it, he waits.   
The tension is killing him. He wants it to last.

Sherlock makes a small sound. Tiny, in the back of his throat, a whimper, a whine. A plea.

And John relents, erasing that breath of distance and tasting Sherlock. A soft, slow slide of lips, almost chaste but for the way Sherlock reacts, jolting like he's been shocked. 

And maybe he has. John is a damn fine kisser, and Sherlock should've been able to deduce that.

John seduces him with that slow, chaste kiss. He hasn't even got down to it yet, to the business of serious snogging (and he means to, but he'll take his time, as this is something he loves to do, exploring another person through kissing), and Sherlock has already melted against him, gone completely boneless, making tiny pleased noises low in his throat. At just the soft slide of John’s lips against his own. It’s a heady thing, powerful, knowing he does this to Sherlock.

John lifts his other hand and threads it into Sherlock's hair as well, cradling his head and holding him close, but breaking the kiss. Sherlock makes a noise of protest, and takes his time opening his eyes. They are dazed when he does, pupils blown wide.

John waits, he waits until Sherlock’s eyes have cleared just a bit, watching closely, single breath between them again.

"John?" he breathes.

John kisses him again. And this time, he sweeps Sherlock under. This kiss isn't chaste. It's slow like the last one, glacially slow, but this kiss is otherwise totally different. With this kiss he imprints himself on Sherlock, imprints, leaves a piece of himself. He claims Sherlock, owns him with that kiss, and Sherlock makes not even a token protest. He surrenders to John, to his kiss, whole-heartedly.

When John realizes it, that Sherlock has given himself over entirely to him, to his kiss, he loses control a little bit. He growls, low in his throat and possessive. His hands tighten in Sherlock's hair, and the kiss shifts again, deepens, becomes a wanton thing, filthy and wet and promising.

He breaks the kiss when he regains control. John hadn't meant to let it get out of hand like that. Not so fast, anyway, not yet. He'd wanted to go slow; he doesn't want to overwhelm Sherlock.

It's impossible to tell who's breathing harder.

"I wish I'd done this ages ago," Sherlock says.

"Oh?"

"I want to be kissing you always."

John laughs and kisses him again, playful this time, all tongue and nipping teeth.   
Sherlock whimpers when he stops. 

"I do have to breathe, Sherlock."

"Breathing is boring."

John chuckles again. He's heard that one before.

"Let's go to bed. I want you to kiss me some more."

John smiles. "All right."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for On A Miserable Winter's Eve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699602) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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